Miseducated

by Brandon P. Fleming

  Barry had more sense than me. We defied rules together but he was far less reckless and spent most of his time covering my ass. He smoked and sold a little dope and we did dumb stuff like run up Mom’s dial-up internet bill with $500 worth of porn purchases. But Barry only wanted to get his feet wet with mischief, while I went deep. Barry would yank me up and say, “Yo, chill the fuck out. You’re gonna get us caught.” But I didn’t care about anything and Barry realized that he could not save me. Clearly I was destined for juvenile detention despite his attempts to talk sense into me. He and all my friends said that basketball could be my salvation, but it was too late. I was too far gone. I was a ticking time bomb and didn’t care who was nearby when I exploded.

  Not even Bre, my girlfriend, was safe. One weekend, we had been watching hours of TV in my living room and I was ready for my next hit. I went upstairs to fetch the baggie usually hidden between my mattress and box spring, but it wasn’t there. I phoned Barry because only two people knew about the stash. He didn’t have it, which left only Bre.

  I stormed downstairs to confront her. She was smiling and singing to music videos when I raged into the living room.

  “Where’s my shit?” I said in a thunderous voice.

  She kept her eyes on the screen and continued dancing to the music like nothing was wrong, like I wasn’t there towering over her. I repeated the question, but all I got from her was a shoulder shrug. When she reached for the remote to jack up the volume, I snatched it from her hand and launched it at the wall. The remote shattered into pieces.

  “I said where is my shit?”

  She gave me a long glare.

  “I know you better calm the fuck down and watch who you’re talking to,” she said.

  “Give it back!”

  “No!” she yelled.

  I wrapped my arms around the television, jerked it off the stand as the cords pulled loose from the wall, and threw it across the room. The crash left Bre with an expression of sheer shock.

  “I’m gonna tell you one more time,” I said. “Give me my shit.” Her facial expression went from anger to worry to fear.

  “Brandon, you need help,” she said, hoping to defuse the tension. She tried to reason with me, explaining that this was the same path my stepfather had gone down. “You are not him,” she said.

  It triggered me. How dare she compare me to that monster? She meant well, but those words were like gunshots that tore through my chest. She might as well have called me by his name. My hands tightened into fiery fists. With all of my might, I cocked back my arm and punched the wall beside me, my hand plowing through the drywall. I punched and punched and punched until blood-stained debris fell to the floor. Bre yelled, “Brandon, stop!” then pulled my stash from her purse and threw it to the floor. I retrieved it. I rolled it. I smoked it.

  Mom tried to save me a couple of times. She even tried to get me on one of those reality TV shows that isolated misbehaving teens into a boot camp and tried to frighten them into being good. Unfortunately for her, the producers only accepted kids who agreed to cooperate, and I wasn’t about to go along with that corny shit. With that off the table, she decided that maybe church could save me.

  One Sunday, Mom dragged us into a nearby middle school cafeteria for a church service. I hated school and church, and I couldn’t believe that my two least favorite institutions had come together this way.

  We hadn’t walked through the doors of any kind of church since my mother left Lucas. Now we were complete outsiders in a group of about ten people, including my mom, my three siblings, and me. The others were the only Black people I’d ever seen dressed like Amish farmers. The women wore shapeless solid-colored dresses so big that not a bodily curve was visible. They were forbidden to cut their hair and wore white hair nets as head coverings. They didn’t say “Hello,” but instead greeted with “Praise the Lord,” “Grace be with you,” or other spiritual salutations. Meanwhile, we trudged in with Girbaud jeans sagging off of our rears, Timberlands, and oversized white tees. We returned their spiritual greetings with a head nod and other irreverent gestures.

  As we mingled with the church folk, my mother tucked her chin into her chest. She was worried about what we might say or do, fearful of being judged. When the preacher’s wife asked questions about our background, my mother said as little as possible and hung on to her Bible for dear life.

  This small congregation used the school cafeteria because it was a free place to meet. They were a charismatic group and they treated the preacher like he was a deity. When he walked through the door, women rushed to carry his Bible and briefcase for him. Everything about this setup seemed odd, but my mother went along with it because she’d heard that this preacher could save us.

  She was willing to try anything that offered more hope for salvation than our makeshift services at home. “Bedside Baptist Church” is where we attended. In our version, we’d pack into Mom’s bed like sardines on Sunday morning, our eyes fastened on the forty-inch television resting on the dresser. I’d wiggle and complain about being uncomfortable until she agreed to let me sit on the floor. Although I promised that this would help me focus better, I drifted off to sleep as soon as I was out of her line of sight.

  Sometimes it was Joel Osteen. Sometimes it was Benny Hinn. At one point it was Jimmy Swaggart, but that ended after his public fall from grace.

  Swaggart was too boring, Hinn seemed too pretentious, and Osteen reminded me of Mister Rogers. Judging by our lack of moral improvement, none of the televangelists had any impact.

  Despite avoiding church since divorcing Lucas, Mom was ready to give live religion another chance because her children were wayward and nothing she did seemed to make a difference. She had met a member of this church on the street, accepted a tract, and heard the woman’s pitch about how this version of religion offered salvation and had nothing in common with what we observed on television. Once there, it was easy to see why the congregation was so small: there was no music or instruments, besides a few tambourines and a cappella singing by old ladies, and the preacher’s fire-and-brimstone sermons were all about condemnation and eternal damnation.

  When the preacher finished, Mom forced me to the makeshift altar. She asked the preacher to save my soul, though what happened looked and felt more like an exorcism. The elders laid hands on me and spoke in tongues as they tried to force me to fall out. Tired of resisting, I eventually just gave them what they wanted and collapsed to the floor so they would stop, but they didn’t. They knelt around me and kept laying hands and praying that the Holy Spirit would enter my body and save my soul.

  I was pretty sure this was a cult.

  We kept going, until one Sunday I’d had enough. My mother made us sit in the front row of folding chairs, the solemnly clad people beside us. Mom wanted us close to the altar because she assumed a correlation between proximity and probability of redemption.

  The preacher approached the pulpit, which in this case was a plain wooden lectern. “Dearly beloved. Please stand for the reading of God’s Word,” he summoned. Everyone rose except me.

  “Let us read aloud,” he continued, paying me no mind.

  Fury engulfed me and I picked up my chair and slammed it down facing away from the minister. I dropped into the chair, folded my arms, and kicked back in a blue plastic seat that wasn’t meant for reclining. I braced my Timberlands on the chair in front of me. The preacher gave me a stare, and I offered him my ass to kiss.

  I hated God. And I damn sure didn’t want to hear from the man who claimed to be his mouthpiece, so I sent a memo straight to God through the one he called his messenger.

  That message: an unapologetic fuck you.

  My actions stunned the members of the congregation. Mom’s head sunk in shame. But one of the creepy woman elders lifted Mom’s chin and said, “Don’t worry, honey. The worst ones are who God chooses to use the most. Watch what I tell you.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SEX & DEATH THREATS

&n
bsp; Once I lost control of my life, addiction and lust and anger steered my mind and body into chaos. This almost killed me. And on a few occasions, it almost killed someone else.

  It had been a typical school day until Nicole walked by and the world stopped. Or at least the boys did. She was dreamy: five foot five with hazel eyes and a body curvilinear. Her melanin was immaculate and sun-kissed. Her skin seemed like it might feel like silk. Ebony curls flowed down her spine, and when she sashayed by, I could hear “Summer Rain” playing in my fourteen-year-old head.

  Her presence was commanding. In the DMV, there were certain girls we called “rollers,” because we imagined that they moved from one guy to the next without pause. Nicole wasn’t one of these. Even if she was, we would have never known. Upperclassmen like her viewed freshman boys as peasants, regardless of athletic prowess. Jocks didn’t impress her. Guys with money, however, did.

  So Nicole, like the other senior girls we rated eight and above, only dated high school grads with jobs, cars, and street credibility. I revered her at a distance—partly because I stood no chance, but mostly because my girlfriend Bre was snappy. So when I spotted Nicole approaching from afar, I directed my gaze about ten steps in the direction she was heading; this way, it seemed that her rear features so happened to fall within my line of sight. But this did not escape Bre’s vigilance. She slapped the back of my neck and roared, “I ain’t dumb and you ain’t slick.” It was true. Bre knew that Nicole was to be envied, although the two had never really met. She sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes as Nicole walked past us. And with good reason: Nicole was the prize that every guy wanted to win, and that every girl wanted to be.

  I was a freshman. Bre was a sophomore. We were fourteen and sixteen years old, we were both standout athletes, and we had been dating since the beginning of the school year. We both had had our share of traumas. When we made love, it seemed like our demons did, too. We came together as two damaged souls and set about weaving a web of teenage calamity. The best of our love was lust. And the outcome was a series of escalating disasters.

  We were fearless, or plain stupid. Maybe both. Our lust was magnetic, explosive, and we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. Not even in our fourth period Spanish class. Sitting in the back, we fondled each other—smiling innocently when Ms. Ramirez scowled suspiciously in our direction. Each day, we looked forward to our lunch block. But we never went. The bell rang and we roamed the halls, looking for a break in traffic and usually finding it in the history wing.

  One time, we came upon the girls’ restroom. I loitered outside while Bre went in.

  “Count to sixty,” she said. “If I don’t come out, that means the coast is clear.” I did my best to look nonchalant. When the time was up, I scanned the hallway once more. Then I dashed inside to the handicap stall. Like the sex-crazed teens that we were, we started ripping off each other’s clothes as soon as we slid the latch. Our thirst was insatiable, fired by the illicit thrill of it all. But at the height of the action, we heard adult voices that put a stop to everything.

  I grabbed frantically for my britches, getting hung up on my belt as Bre motioned for me to be still. Our worst nightmare was being caught in the act—and expelled. Bre peered through the door and saw two teachers. They were exchanging teacher woes, and one of the voices I recognized as Mrs. Johnson, my world history instructor. Bre held one finger to her lips and pointed toward the toilet seat. I had no other choice but to climb up so they would not see two pairs of feet. Then, suddenly, a knock on the door. Squatting on the commode, I prayed silently, “Lord, if you get me out of this, I promise I will never do it again.” After a few minutes, the teachers left. We were not caught this time. But our continued exploits soon gave lie to my desperate supplication.

  Bre and I tested the boundaries of mercy many times after that. The thrill of creeping was yet another addictive high, obscuring all forms of rational thought. We were two sexually deviant daredevils who couldn’t stop. Sometimes we didn’t even make it to the girls’ restroom. Sometimes it happened after school in the middle of a vacant hallway. If any teacher had walked down that hall, our X-rated escapades would be seared into their memory, and the subsequent expulsion would permanently stain our records.

  We even pushed the limits at home. One day, Bre and I were in my bedroom doing everything that we weren’t supposed to be doing. But before we could finish, I heard Mom’s voice bounce off every wall in our two-story house.

  “I done told y’all about leaving this door unlocked!” she roared. “Barry? Brandon? Sierra?” she called out. But it was only me and Bre in the house, just a few steps away from being busted.

  I could hear Mom’s footsteps mounting the stairs. The first door she would open was mine at the top of the stairwell. My heart was racing so fast I could barely think. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t hide. I couldn’t find an excuse for Bre being in my bedroom with the door closed and the air redolent of sin. I looked at Bre, her face contorted with fear, then I looked beside us at the only way of escape. I ran to the window and opened it.

  “I’m so sorry, but you gotta jump,” I said without remorse. We had to do it. It was either her or me. I chose her.

  “Are you crazy?” she responded in disbelief.

  I could hear Mom’s heavy footsteps getting closer. We had maybe ten seconds left. Mom was so close that I was hissing my words. “Bre, you have to jump. Now!”

  She stuck her head out the window to gauge the distance. The clock was running out.

  Mom knocked on my door. “Brandon, are you in there?” she called out.

  Bre looked down warily at the two-story drop. She had one leg through the window but her torso was still inside the room. “One second, Mom,” I said, watching Bre clutch the windowsill as she tried to ease herself out. But there was no time for that. She was moving too slow. She was too scared to let go. So I gave her a little push, and her body went tumbling down, face-planting in a pile of leaves and mud.

  She lived. And so did I. Bre did not have any broken bones. And I opened the door, greeting my mother with a blameless smile.

  We took risks like this without thinking. Our fix became more important than life itself. Our lust didn’t have fatal consequences that time, but the likelihood was increasing.

  We had basketball practice after school every day, or at least some iteration of it. If we weren’t on the court, we were lifting weights, doing conditioning drills, or watching game films. On rare occasions, Coach gave us a break, meaning we were excused after school for rest and fellowship. One such afternoon, my friends and I waited for our buses near the school’s main entrance, where an amalgamation of cliques assembled: the whites, Blacks, and Hispanics. And their subsets: student council, athletes, gang members. The varsity basketball and football players claimed the turf by the vending machines. Each day, people knew exactly where to find us—instigating fights, seducing girls who liked our flirting, and annoying girls who didn’t.

  Jocks were obnoxious for no reason. Meat-checking is how we enacted masculinity and male bonding. It was a silly game. An example: Rashe would extend his hand to greet Chad, then he’d point to the ceiling and say, “What’s that?” When Chad looked up, Rashe would deliver a backhanded blow to the nuts as Chad’s six-foot, two-hundred-pound body folded on the ground in fetal position. We’d all cheer and laugh hysterically. But then people would catch on and stop falling for it, so we’d have to be innovative. When Rashe would greet Chad again, he’d say, “Ayo, catch!” and toss a water bottle just high enough in the air to send Chad’s arms reaching toward the ceiling, leaving a clear path for a gut-wrenching meat check. This passed for brains and creativity in our world.

  One day I was leaning against the wall, dressed in my uniform of Timberlands, jeans, and an oversized white T-shirt. Behind me, a mellifluous voice said, “Hey, Brandon.” I noticed that my friends’ faces had frozen in disbelief before I could even turn around. I did not recognize the voice, and
I was stunned to see where it came from. It was Nicole.

  We had never spoken, and she had no reason to know my name. She had never even looked in my direction, except maybe for an eye roll in response to our catcalls. I looked around to make sure that no one else named Brandon was near me. I was starstruck. I could barely form the word hello.

  “What you doing after school?” she asked. “I’d love to ride the bus with you.” For a heartbeat, I considered that I had plans with my friends, who were all heading to my house. Those plans were canceled, effective immediately. I disinvited them all. This was a major development. Riding someone else’s bus was a thing in high school—it was our version of the first date over dinner. After Nicole agreed to meet me after school and walked away, my boys rushed me with handshakes and hugs, screaming, “Yoooo!” None of us could believe what was happening.

  Nicole and I sat together on the bus, but I kept my distance, still bewildered. This didn’t make sense. She had never shown even the tiniest sign of interest in me, no matter how many times our paths had crossed on campus. On the bus, I was usually raucous—standing on the seats, yelling taunts, ignoring the driver’s pleas for peace. But now I sat heels planted, knees tight, not knowing what to do with my hands twitching on my lap. I did my best to keep up small talk, but my thoughts scattered, and my gaze toggled between her eyes and her succulent breasts.

  I had no idea what Nicole wanted or why she was sitting beside me, but I knew that a monumental decision loomed. If I advanced and she resisted, high school gossip would ridicule me as a loser who aimed too high. But if I hung back, I would forfeit every penniless high school boy’s version of currency: bragging rights. The probabilities were as hard to parse as the spin of a roulette wheel.

  The bus turned off of Sacramento Drive to our destination. Suddenly, I felt her skin graze my left pinky. My peripheral vision confirmed what was happening while I avoided any rash moves that might break the romantic tension. I moved my hand onto her thigh. I stretched my fingers to interlink with hers. The connection sent an electric current shooting through my body and a rush of blood to the place that my mind had to convince to stay down. We made our way off the bus, our hands hugging as I led the way.